


yours,

by Splashattack



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: 18-Month Time Gap (Rusty Quill Gaming), 5+1 Things, Airships, Background Commander James Barnes/Howard Carter (Rusty Quill Gaming) - Freeform, Canon Asexual Character, Canon Compliant, Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Getting Together, Letters, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Oscar Wilde (Rusty Quill Gaming) has ADHD, Quarantine, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27428047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splashattack/pseuds/Splashattack
Summary: Five times Zolf was completely oblivious, and one time he wasn't.
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 22
Kudos: 85





	yours,

**Author's Note:**

> all of the kudos to Fozzy, who did an amazing job beta'ing this fic. Thank you so, _so_ much.  
> huge shoutout also to Katto! Love was a constant source of encouragement when writing this fic, and I doubt I would have finished it without loves.
> 
> also I'd like everyone to know the story behind this fic: I set it up the day before 174 dropped thinking I'd want to write some fluff because I'd be a bit sad. _then 174 dropped and was_ so _much worse than I'd ever anticipated_ anyway the working title was "local sad sea dad and basbard are idiots"

### 1: Paris

There was a hand on Zolf’s shoulder. Small but strong, it shook him awake: Sasha. He heard a groggy moan from Hamid as he sat up, blinking to adjust his eyes to the albeit dim light flickering in through the shutters of the locksmith’s cramped shop and gleaming off an assortment of chains and safes.

“There’s someone tryin’ to get in. I need, like—look for a way out the back, uh, an’ get Bertie out, quietly.” Sasha’s voice was frantic as she stepped over Bertie, who was still sleeping.

There was a resounding knock from the front of the shop as Zolf pushed himself off the ground, followed by a remarkably blasé voice.

“Take your time, but we’re not going anywhere.”

Zolf pursed his lips, looking around the shop for anything he could use to barricade the front, any lingering traces of sleep forgotten. There were chains everywhere, but nothing to brace them on—

“I’ll go upstairs an’ look out,” Sasha whispered, and Hamid nodded his agreement, face pale. Zolf hoped he didn’t vomit again.

“Do you know who it is? More of Gourmand’s gang?”

Sasha shrugged at him, looking frustrated. 

“I don’t know, but who else would it be?”

“I dunno—police?” Even as he was saying it, Zolf knew they weren’t, but _gods_ he hoped he was wrong: between Hamid being nearly out of spells and Wilde’s completely unresponsive state, they were about as far from battle-ready as was possible. Sasha’s only response was to shoot him a concerned look.

“They’ve got some sort of telepathy,” Hamid guessed with a sigh, as the rapid knocks sounded once more. “We shouldn’t have kept them with us.”

“Should’ve killed them,” Zolf agreed with the promptness of one who’d advocated for the idea from the beginning.

The same voice from earlier called out again, now with notably less patience. “You’ve got about three minutes.”

Sasha was on the stairs in the blink of an eye, her steps significantly too soft for how quickly she was ascending. A moment later, Zolf heard the muffled sounds of a conversation, and he took the opportunity to hurriedly check behind furniture and under rugs for any way out while Hamid woke Bertie and somehow managed to keep him silent.

He could actually _hear_ Sasha come down the stairs, and his heart sank—if she didn’t feel the need to be quiet, chances were infinitely slim that they were getting out without a fight.

“Alright, so there isn’t really much hope of gettin’ out of here,” she reported. “There’s, like, six of ‘em out front that I could see, there’s some on the roof, they’re gonna be out the back if there _is_ a back way—any trapdoors into the sewers that you noticed? Anything?”

Zolf shook his head, and Sasha began to pace across the room, running her hands through spiky hair.

Hamid took a deep, hesitant breath. “I think there’s something we should do,” he admitted, staring at the ground. Sasha stopped, spinning on her heel to face him.

“What?”

“Kill the two gnomes.”

It was at this moment that Bertie chose to join in—of _course_ it was.

“Seconded. Motion carried, hmm?”

As annoying as it was to admit, he’d actually managed to produce a sentence that Zolf agreed with.

“Yeah, pretty much. I mean—”

Bertie nodded and cut him off. “Fancy making a sacrifice?”

“You could drown ‘em,” Sasha suggested, looking proud of herself for the idea.

“Perhaps you could call down a mighty thunderstorm,” Bertie added.

Zolf shook his head, thinking. Truth be told, he was hesitant to do much of anything in honor of Poseidon at the moment.

“I’m not going to be doin’ any of that, thanks,” he decided, his voice quiet but firm. Sasha turned to the notes without a response.

“So you’ve told all these people about us, well done,” she accused. One furrowed their brow in confusion; the other was completely unresponsive. Sasha ran her hand through her hair again, tugging at a handful.

“They’ve come after us, you told ‘em, what, with your telepathy,” she explained.

The conscious gnome reached up, gesturing at their gag. Sasha pulled it unceremoniously down to hang from their neck.

“… _what_?” they asked, and they were either a shockingly good actor or were genuinely puzzled.

Sasha rolled her eyes. “Well, you obviously brought these people down to get us.” Behind her, Bertie nodded enthusiastically, pulling his sword about halfway out of its sheath. The intimidation tactic didn’t seem to have much success.

“How? We were with you.”

Sasha started pacing again. 

“Yeah, but—you were communicating while you were invisible.”

At this point, the gnome looked more astonished at the logic than confused.

“You let three of my mates get away! Let’s—let’s look at the options. Number one: telepathic… gnomes.”

Sasha stopped mid-stride and nodded. “Yeah.”

They continued, ignoring her interjection. “Two: someone said, ‘they’re over there’.”

Zolf glanced at Hamid and shrugged—they did have a point.

“I’ve seen gnomes,” Sasha responded, “an’ they can, like, burn stuff into people’s skin, an’ appear out of nowhere.” Her voice was matter-of-fact as she finished: “That’s what gnomes can do.”

Zolf shook his head. There were more productive things he could be doing, and they had a very limited amount of time.

“Right, I’m gonna see if I can get Wilde up,” he excused, before making his way across the room to where Wilde lay in a position that looked strikingly uncomfortable. Zolf crouched next to his prone form, shaking his shoulders, slapping his face, calling his name. Eventually, he cast create water over him, and Wilde sputtered, opening unfocused eyes.

“Wilde,” Zolf said in a stage-whisper, honestly surprised at his own audible relief.

“Zolf? I—what?” Wilde mumbled, bringing his hand up to rub at his eyes. He attempted to sit up, faltered, and pulled one of the blankets Sasha had found under his head instead.

“Gourmand sent people after us,” Zolf explained quickly. “Sasha doesn’t think we’re gettin’ out easily.”

Wilde swallowed, squinting at Zolf.

“Then why—uh, why are you still here?” It was obviously a challenge for Wilde to stay coherent, judging on how long it took him to speak. 

“We’re surrounded, Wilde, can’t really leave.”

Wilde shook his head, managing to sit up this time.

“‘S not you they want,” he slurred, blinking in a vain attempt to clear his eyes of whatever had been on the gag. Zolf frowned, raising a brow.

“You really think we’d give you up?” He wouldn’t deny that Wilde was infuriating, and unhelpful, and really more trouble than he was worth—but he was part of the crew.

Wilde took so long to respond that Zolf nearly left him. When he did, it was quiet, but clear, nearly as articulate as normal.

“You deserve better than to die protecting me.”

Zolf scoffed, shaking his head. He stood and turned back to the rest of his team.

“Right,” he began, making his way back to Sasha and Hamid. “We’re not getting anything useful out of him.”

  


### 2: Prague

Zolf hadn't wanted to spend the money Hamid left him. He'd quit, after all—those funds didn't belong to him. But Hamid had insisted, and he wasn't going to be able to do much to help rebuild the city without a place to stay, so he'd eventually relented.

He wasn't entirely sure what had happened at the opera house. The incident took the front page in the newspapers, but once he'd seen whom the article had credited with saving Prague, he'd done his best to avoid the story entirely. Zolf had spent the vast majority of his time volunteering at the hospital, calling on whatever little faith he had left to lend a hand to the overworked staff.

It was dark by the time he returned to the house he was staying at. The couple who owned it were odd, to say the least: they had collected his rent for the month and showed him to his room without a single word. Despite the fact that Zolf technically lived with them, he'd not seen them once since the initial interaction. He didn't even know their names.

The room was small—a far cry from _La Triumph_ —but had a practicality that he greatly preferred over the gilded vastness of the presidential suite. It had everything he needed: a small mattress draped with thick quilts, an oaken wardrobe, a sturdy desk upon which laid an expensive-looking cream envelope that hadn't been there when he had left that morning.

Zolf sat on the creaking bed, pulling his boots off mechanical feet before retrieving the rich envelope to investigate. Its elaborate detailing alone was enough to guess the sender, even if he hadn't recognized the flowing cursive script stating his name and address. He smelled something flowery as he cut the seal, and was both affronted and unsurprised that Wilde had perfumed the letter.

 _Dearest Mr. Smith,_ it started, and Zolf rolled his eyes, huffing.

_Dearest Mr. Smith,_

_I must admit, I was more disheartened to hear of your departure than I had expected. I feel you brought a rare perspective to the team, one which I have unfortunately come to admire._

_Despite what one may gather from the opening, I do not write with the intent to flatter you—at least, not primarily. Given the state of the world, news is slow to travel, and I thought you might be hungry for updates on the team, as it were. I wouldn't bother except that Hamid and Sasha are so busy that I'd doubt they have time._

_Hamid managed to find two people willing to fill in for you and Bertie, though how he managed to convince them I've no clue. They're both paladins: Azu's very polite, and Grizzop—well. He's an interesting character._

_If there's one thing I have learned from our time working together, it's that you appreciate a level of straightforwardness, so I'll be blunt: Sasha is partially undead. We've made arrangements to retrieve an artifact under meritocratic control that will reverse this, but—well, it felt like something you should be made aware of. It's not your fault, Zolf. They're doing well._

_Should you ever find yourself in want of company, know that I'm never too busy for you. As momentarily inconvenient as it was to be completely drenched, I feel the look really worked on me._

_Take care of yourself, Zolf._

_Yours,  
Oscar_

It took a moment for Zolf to realize that his hands were trembling. He dropped the glossy paper and numbly watched it flutter onto his lap before just staring at it, trying to make sense of the blurring letters.

He'd left. They'd needed him, more than ever, and he'd left.

Zolf wasn't sure how much time passed before he moved again—at least an hour. He folded the letter, tucked it back into its envelope, and pulled a worn leather suitcase from beneath his bed.

Prague was healing. It was time to move on.

  


### 3: Somewhere near the western coast of Scotland

A cool, briny gust blew through Zolf's hair, somehow managing to dishevel it further. Over an arm hung a bag containing tomatoes, eggs, dried herbs—ingredients for tonight's dinner. Wilde had safehouses all over the world, which was incredibly useful for situations such as the one they found themselves in: it'd been just over two months since Hamid, Sasha, Azu, and Grizzop had vanished into Rome, and Wilde had been travelling all around Europe, searching for a new team. The specific safehouse they were staying at, tucked into the base of a cliff facing the sea, came equipped with a pasta maker, and he'd been itching to try his hand at spaghetti. 

Zolf made his way up the cobbled path to the door of the cottage and stepped inside, setting the bag down to remove his wet shoes before advancing further into the house.

"Wilde! 'M back."

There was no response, and Zolf pursed his lips—the only time Wilde didn't respond was when he was so engrossed in a task that he didn't notice, and he'd promised to stay out of the paperwork for the rest of the day.

Zolf picked the bag back up, setting it on the counter in the kitchen before heading off to drag Wilde from the hurricane of letters and blueprints that had claimed his room for their own. The door was slightly ajar, and Zolf nudged it further with his foot, clearing his throat as he did.

Wilde was, indeed, completely absorbed in his task, but it wasn't paperwork: he was sitting sideways in the velvet-upholstered chair by his desk, legs hooked over the arm and crossed at the ankle. An open, leather-bound journal rested against his thigh, and he held an expensive-looking pen, tapping the end of it against his bottom lip. Zolf honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd seen him this relaxed.

Wilde looked up, setting the pen atop a pile of books on his desk. 

"Zolf. What can I do for you?"

Zolf shrugged, shifting his weight in the doorframe. 

"Just makin' sure you weren't back at work," he explained. Wilde grinned cheekily.

"I _knew_ you cared."

Zolf turned away to hide the grin he couldn't quite smother. That'd happened quite often recently, and it was really starting to get on his nerves.

"Shut up."

"Make me," came the instantaneous response. Zolf wasn't surprised in the slightest. He rolled his eyes, still fighting that fond smile as he walked back to the kitchen. By the time he'd gotten a mixing bowl out, his traitorous face was back under control. Wilde had followed and was perched on a stool pushed against the counter, his knees pulled up to his chest despite the small area of his seat. He'd left the notebook behind.

"So," Wilde started as Zolf measured out the flour, overfilling the cup and swiping the excess off, "what culinary delights are we making today?"

"What culinary delights am _I_ making, while you sit there, bein’ annoying," Zolf corrected, adding a dash of salt to the flour and beginning to sift through it with a fork. Wilde hummed, and didn't deny the accusation.

"Were they any good?" The trip was a long shot—replacing the team, it turned out, was significantly harder than either of them had anticipated. Wilde had heard a second-hand rumor from an old contact about a mercenary group who'd recently passed through the area, but it was so unlikely they were suited to the task that the pair wouldn't have bothered if not for the recent sighting of a metallic appendage in the sea during a particularly harsh storm, which caught Zolf's interest.

"One had a penchant for wordplay," Wilde responded, reaching out to grab a pinch of flour before Zolf could swat his hand away. He sprinkled it in a fine layer over the counter before him and rolled his finger in it, before scraping the dust off with a glossy scarlet nail.

"Already got too much of that," Zolf grumbled, wrinkling his nose. Wilde grinned, and as Zolf turned to get out the milk, he swiped his flour onto the floor.

"How can I help, Zolf?" he asked, clapping his hands together and hopping down from the stool. Zolf raised an eyebrow.

"Not sure I've ever seen you in a kitchen."

"Humor me."

"You hate cooking," Zolf commented skeptically, measuring the milk into a bowl.

"And yet here I am, offering my services," came the cheeky response.

Zolf huffed, indicating the bowl. "Mix two eggs into that," he instructed, already resigning himself to the inevitable shells that would be in the pasta.

Wilde busied himself with the task, humming a soft, jovial melody as he did so. Zolf poured the flour onto the countertop and dug a hole in the middle, actively fighting the urge to whistle along.

"That gets poured into the well," he explained, stepping back. Wilde gave a salute, accompanied by a wink, and began emptying the bowl into the dip—far too quickly.

"Slower," Zolf began, reaching out to right the bowl, but it was already too late: milk and egg was spilling from the overfilled well, running down the counter and onto the floor. Wilde gasped as the mixture soaked into his shirt, dropping the bowl into the mess that would have been dough. He turned to Zolf, covered in egg and milk and flour—

—and began to laugh. Not a snicker, not wry: something full-bodied and bubbling with mirth, something so deep and genuine that Zolf couldn't help but chuckle along. 

Wilde braced himself on the counter, and his whole being nearly glowed with joy as he grinned up at Zolf—and it was at that exact moment that he was able to name the gentle fondness that had been growing within him. _Fuck_.

It was nearly three hours before they were finally sat down, eating: leftovers, with the would-be noodles thrown out. Zolf couldn't honestly bring himself to care.

  


### 4: Okinoshima

The mission had been a bust, of course. The contact Zolf, Carter, and Barnes had been sent to investigate had been infected, and they walked right into the ambush. They'd managed to limp away, and though Carter had nearly died, Zolf's healing hadn't failed them.

They were met with the standard upon returning to the inn: straight to the anti-magic cell to quarantine. Wilde came down for the debrief, as hostile as he always was during the decontamination period, and had left immediately after.

It'd been a few hours since their dinner had been brought down. Carter and Barnes had spent the time huddled together by the bed, murmuring to one another in low voices until they had fallen asleep under a shared blanket. Not wanting to wake them, Zolf had gathered the extra blankets into a sort of nest, detaching his legs and burrowing inside to sleep.

He was jolted out of his half-awake state by the creak of the trapdoor, followed by soft descending footsteps. A figure, carrying a flickering candle, approached, their silhouette dark against the softly-lit stone corridor but more familiar than his own face. He shifted to sit against the wall as Wilde set the flame on a weathered table outside the cell and sat in one of the worn chairs pushed around it. He didn't acknowledge Zolf's presence as he pulled a journal and a gilded fountain pen from his satchel. He opened to a bookmarked page and simply stared at it, twirling the pen absently through nimble fingers.

"Wilde."

There was no response, but the pen stilled. Zolf decided to take that as a win.

"Why are you down here?" The way Zolf asked, it came out sounding more like a statement than a question. Wilde scribbled something onto the page and stared resolutely at it. His voice was cold, detached, when he finally responded.

"Checking in."

Zolf frowned, glancing back into the cell. Barnes was fast asleep leaning against the bed, with Carter's head on his shoulder. Both were snoring softly.

"There's a protocol, Wilde."

He still didn't look up from his writing. "One that I'm hardly breaking by seeing who's turned." It was a tone familiar from so many quarantine checks: Zolf knew he was being addressed as a dead man, and the only thing capable of changing that was time.

"Well, we're clear so far. No point in you endangerin' yourself."

Wilde set the pen back on the rough wooden surface of the table perhaps too forcefully, snapping the notebook shut. He leaned his head on it, taking a long breath. It was a full minute before he responded, and Zolf felt every second as though it were a weight on his chest.

"Stay that way."

It was a simple phrase, just as impersonal as anything else he'd said, save for a minute hitch in his voice at the last word. It was subtle enough that Zolf wouldn't have noticed had he not been paying such close attention, but it told him all he needed to know.

"You're not losin' another team, Wilde."

Wilde lifted his head off the book, looking at Zolf for the first time since he'd descended the steps. His eyes, Zolf was surprised to notice, were glassy.

"That's really not the issue."

"Then tell me what is."

Wilde shook his head, his expression almost one of genuine amazement were it not so guarded. "You really don't know, do you?"

Zolf scowled, turning away to stare at the wall in front of him. "No need to patronize me," he snapped.

Wilde let out a sigh, opening the satchel once more and producing a battered book. He stood and leaned forward to hold it through the cage bars. Zolf took it, examining the cover as Wilde made his way back to the worn collection of furniture outside the cell and began pushing the table closer to the bars, giving Zolf more light. 

The front depicted a ruggedly handsome man with a billowing shirt on a horse; arms wound around his waist and another man's head peered out from behind his shoulder. _Hearts Entwined_ was emblazoned in curling letters over the top: a Campbell he'd picked up a few weeks ago and hadn't had the chance to read. He looked back up at Wilde, who was dragging one of the chairs to the table.

"You should go upstairs," Zolf stated, though there wasn't much force behind it. Wilde hummed his acknowledgement and sat once more. The chair creaked as he leaned forward and picked up the notebook and pen.

"Thank you."

Wilde looked up and nodded once, his face pensive.

"I need you to be okay, Zolf," he responded, punctuating it with a sigh, as if the words were being dragged out of him. His voice still retained its practiced detachment, but it was something different from the usual, something more complex with a hint of vulnerability. Zolf took a breath, gave a slight nod, and flipped the Campbell open. Wilde had tucked one of the velvet ribbons he used to tie up his hair inside as a bookmark, and he smiled at the gesture as Wilde opened his notebook again as if the exchange hadn't happened.

They sat in companionable silence for well over an hour before Wilde stood and stretched, tucking his journal back into the satchel. He turned and made his way back up the stairs without a word, and left the candle.

  


### 5: Hiroshima

The airship was—well. Zolf would like to say it was coming together nicely, but he’d be lying. He could just see the tip of a kobold’s tail poking over a piece of metal that occasionally sparked as Cel shouted what he’d assume were instructions in Draconic, seeming to be enjoying themselves, and he turned his attention back to the task at hand. He didn’t have the slightest clue what the wires he was connecting would do, but Cel had assured him that what they really needed was more hands, so he’d volunteered to take on some of the more menial jobs.

It was a few minutes later when Cel clapped their hands over their head, calling out to the kobolds and then again in English, announcing that they were to take a break. Zolf had gotten the impression, from the short time he’d known them, that if left to their own devices, Cel would push themselves until they were practically incapable of working, but when given others to care for, rests were regular and lengthy. 

Zolf set down the piece of paneling he’d been working on, standing and flexing his cramping fingers before making his way to a gnarled tree at the edge of the shipyard and sitting at its base. Cel, surrounded by kobolds, was animatedly explaining something, leaving Zolf on his own. He leaned against the tree, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, savoring this singular moment of stillness in the chaos that the world had fallen to.

“You look like you had a fun night,” Wilde remarked, sitting next to Zolf, who opened his eyes, frowning.

“Thought you were—dunno, doin’ something else.”

Wilde had more or less vanished upon their arrival in Hiroshima—Zolf honestly wasn’t sure what he’d been up to.

“Missed your infinite charms,” Wilde responded, and Zolf scoffed lightly, resting his head against the trunk. Wilde took the opportunity to lie on his back, folding his arms under his head and slinging his legs over Zolf’s lap.

“You’re like a bloody cat,” he remarked, wrinkling his nose. Wilde looked thoughtful at the prospect.

“Flexible?”

“In the way.”

Wilde shrugged, flicking one ankle dismissively. Zolf swallowed, looking away—gods, he could never decide if he loved or hated it when Wilde was like this. How the hell was he supposed to _respond_? He couldn’t bring it up, risk Wilde stopping, or noticing what he’d fought so hard to hide for well over a year, but not acknowledging whatever _this_ was—it was physically painful.

He was still wrestling for control over his thoughts when he felt Wilde shift, and he opened his eyes to see Cel, who had left the kobolds, rapidly approaching.

“Cel,” Zolf greeted, nodding to them. Their spiked hair, he noticed, was streaked with dark grease.

“Mr. Smith! I wanted to—” They paused mid-sentence as they noticed Wilde, eyes widening comically. “Oh, uh, hello, Mr. Wilde, sorry, I didn’t—I mean—am I interrupting?”

Zolf sat up, shoving at Wilde, who was barely masking a laugh as he moved his legs to rest on the ground. 

“No, not at all,” Wilde assured, looking up at Cel from his prone position. “Do go on.”

“Oh! Yes, of course. Right. I wanted to thank you for all your help on the ship, Mr. Smith, it’s going so much quicker—actually, I calculated it, we’re building it 23% faster with your help—oh, and the elementals, they keep crackling, Mr. Smith, it’s breathtaking—not literally, of course, it’d be a bit hard to fix a ship without breathing—though I could make a potion for that—”

Zolf cut them off, perfectly aware of the fact that they’d keep going indefinitely otherwise.

“‘Course. Just glad I could do somethin’ to help.”

Cel nodded, and began to turn away, despite looking as if they’d like to say more before they stopped, hesitated, and turned back to Zolf and Wilde.

“Can I ask—and I might be overstepping, I completely understand if you don’t want to answer, this sort of thing can be complicated—are you two romantically involved?”

Zolf took a sharp breath, biting the inside of his cheek, as Wilde pushed himself up to sit straight.

“Zolf remains immune to my charms, unfortunately,” and _gods_ Zolf was glad he wasn’t facing Wilde, because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to deal with the flirtatious smirk he’d find there, one he’d learned so long ago was standard, one that would serve only to further drive in the fact that Wilde just didn’t see him that way.

He missed Wilde’s weak smile, and he missed the sudden understanding that flashed across Cel’s face, but he didn’t miss their nod, and he had to say something, or else they would find out, and he just wasn’t ready for that.

“What charms?”

Wilde winced, and though he tried to pass it off as a sneeze, Zolf wasn’t falling for it.

“What, are you _that_ worried that there might be someone you can’t seduce?”

Zolf felt his heart crack at the quick succession of expressions across Wilde’s face: hurt, frustration, and something akin to regret before settling on a measured neutrality.

“So sorry, Zolf, Cel, but I must be off, forms to sign, supplies to be arranged for,” Wilde announced, standing in one fluid motion and beginning to walk away before either had a chance to respond. Given the expression on Cel’s face, though, Zolf doubted they would have said anything even without the abrupt exit: they looked as if they had been confronted by a furious animal. He looked away from them and watched Wilde’s retreating figure, trying to swallow the uncomfortable lump in his throat. By the time he had disappeared from view, Cel was gone.

  


### +1: Somewhere above the Northern Wastes

It was dark in his cabin when Zolf woke, a scream dying in his parched throat. He’d never been able to remember his nightmares, which he supposed was a blessing, but the deep-set panic and dread always stayed with him. 

Zolf pushed himself off the mattress until he was leaning against the headboard and reached for the flask of water he’d left on the nightstand. He took a long swig and sighed, running a hand through wild hair.

He must have still been on alert from the dream, because he heard the muffled steps outside his door before the soft rap of knuckles on wood. He was expecting Hamid, or maybe Barnes, who was on duty tonight—but he couldn’t really say he was surprised when a messy-haired Wilde stepped in sheepishly, clad in a rather plain set of pajamas and a pair of slippers adorned with rabbit ears. They were absolutely ridiculous and so fitting that Zolf couldn’t help but smile, even as his heart continued to pound with adrenaline and lingering fear.

“Zolf?” Wilde’s voice was raspy with sleep. He squinted into the darkness, and Zolf leaned over to flick on his bedside lamp.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he apologized, and Wilde shook his head.

“Don’t worry about it. I’d—I’d rather be here than not.”

Zolf could still feel the thumping within his chest, though he’d be lying through his teeth if he continued to blame it on his nightmare. He stared at his lap, trying to hide the color he knew flamed across his face. 

Wilde crossed the room in a few steps and sat on the edge of the bed, and Zolf suddenly wished more than anything that he could remember his dreams, because there was no way he was awake right now.

Wilde’s voice was uncharacteristically tender when he spoke once more. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Zolf shrugged, biting the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood in an attempt to gain control over his rampant blush.

“Not much _to_ talk about, really. Comes with the job.”

WIlde pursed his lips, but didn’t push the subject. Instead, he pulled his knees to his chest, making it clear without actually speaking that he wasn’t leaving. Zolf took a deep breath.

“Wilde.”

“Hmm?” he hummed, looking up from his hands and to Zolf.

Zolf had never been one to hesitate, but right now, in the dim light of the lamp, with mussed hair and rumpled pajamas and open faces—it mattered more. There was such a sincerity to Wilde’s soft smile that Zolf’s breath caught.

“Why did you…” He trailed off uncertainly, gesturing at the now-closed door.

“There are many people in this world, Zolf, who deserve to suffer on occasion, and you are not among them.”

Zolf swallowed and nodded once, slowly, trying to decipher the deeper message he knew was hidden in those words. That was how Wilde _worked_ —anything he said of personal importance was buried under layers of metaphors and puns, hidden behind webs of elaborate prose. Zolf had long since learned how to work out what Wilde truly meant, and he prided himself on how fluently he was able to do so. Now, though‒well, there was a reason Zolf had long since admitted to himself that he could be biased on these matters.

Wilde needed him to be functional for the mission. He was a manager—making sure the team was at full capacity was his job. That was all.

That was all, but Wilde’s face was earnest in a way Zolf wasn’t sure he’d ever really seen before, and they were all going to die soon, anyway.

Fuck it.

“What is this?”

Wilde frowned. “Pardon?”

“This‒whatever it is we’ve been doing. I don’t‒I don’t know what it _is_ , Wilde.”

WIlde inhaled sharply, bit his lip, didn’t break Zolf’s gaze, didn’t hesitate. “I have loved you for—quite honestly, too long, Mr. Smith.”

Zolf let out a surprised chuckle as Wilde’s face took on a similar shade to Azu’s armor. Gods, he hadn’t known Wilde was even _capable_ of blushing. He scooted to one side of the bed and pulled the covers back, and Wilde was next to him in an instant, those horrendous slippers discarded on the floor.

“You’re not joking?” he asked, so much more vulnerable than he was comfortable with, as Wilde pulled the blankets back over the both of them.

“Not in the slightest,” he promised, and Zolf leaned into his side, unable to suppress his smile from the blinding amount of joy he felt. 

“Since Scotland, at least,” he replied in response to the unasked question.

“Thank the gods,” Wilde muttered, and Zolf could hear the smile in his voice. “I thought I was losing my touch.”

Zolf huffed out a laugh, turning to stare up at Wilde, who met his gaze. Zolf smiled softly, prompting him to raise a brow.

“What?”

Zolf shrugged. “‘M just happy, I guess,” he responded, looking down as he felt his own cheeks flame. Wilde pressed a lingering kiss to the top of his head, and—damn. Zolf had been in relationships in the past, but this was something completely different, something not even comparable. He’d never felt so loved.

Wilde shifted until he was lying down, and held out his arms invitingly. Zolf reached out, flicked off the lamp, and they fell asleep murmuring declarations and promises in one another’s arms.


End file.
